


Phoenix

by asylum69



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Horror. Absolute., Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 16:02:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10722582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asylum69/pseuds/asylum69
Summary: This work is very dark and came from a very dark place in my imagination. Methos reinvents himself ... literally.





	Phoenix

**Author's Note:**

> Anyone with a phobia or even just a fear of being burned might want to give this one a wide berth. Methos becomes a Phoenix*. Literally.
> 
> *As in Harry Potter. A bird which burns alive at the end of its life only to be reborn from the ashes.

DISCLAIMER: Methos aka Adam Pierson, belongs to Panzer/Davis and Rysher. 　No money made, and it's just for fun.

 

Rated NC17 and DEFINITELY NOT for the Squeamish. 　If you are and you've come through to this story by mistake, GO BACK NOW. 　 _Disturbing images of being burned lie ahead. You have been warned!!_

 

　

PHOENIX

by asylum69

 

The stars above him were very different to how they had looked last time; a different time, a different place. The door inside himself was much the same as it had been before, but since this was only the second time he'd faced this, it still frightened him. The thought of stepping through, naked and totally vulnerable was not a pleasant one, and his hands trembled as he tried to strike the match. After a couple of attempts the match head sparked and bloomed into a small glow of flame. Shielding it with his hands, he lowered it to the edges of the paper and watched with an uneasy mix of dread and fascination as the flame grew brighter and began to spread eagerly through the rest of the dry tinder. Licking its bright, dancing tongues of deadly light at the edges of the wood, the crackling began; the delighted laughter of the wild, primitive beast that Fire was.

　

He followed the heightening flames and the curling streams of smoke as they reached skywards; the roof of the old warehouse had fallen in a couple of years ago, leaving the headily-scented woodsmoke to rise unfettered, up into the night. He could tell by the way the smoke skittered away Eastwards as it escaped the building, that there was a breeze blowing up and already there was a dampness to the air; it would start to rain before morning. A heavy rain, as it always was at this time of year, and it would douse the fire once it had done its work, without needing any help; he had chosen the time well.

　

Standing back from the growing heat of the flames, he shed his coat and held it in his hands a little while then, with a gentle toss, he threw it onto the expanding blaze. A coat wasn't much to destroy really, but it had seen him through lean and wonderful times alike, and he instantly missed its comforting weight around him. Drawing in a sudden breath he raised his eyes to the weaving, swaying smoke figures as they danced skywards and silently said goodbye to the disintegrating rag of cloth.

　

Slowly his fingers slid around the buttons down the front of his shirt, freeing them from their neat cachements of cloth. One at a time, he unbuttoned the cuffs, and then slid the shirt off almost ceremoniously, his fingers rubbing absently over the fabric as he lost himself in a memory of other, smaller fingers which had traced over the cloth in a lover's caress. Then, with a small sigh, the shirt too was consigned to the flames.

　

Next he bent to remove his shoes, removing the laces with care; barefoot, he stood up, the simple black leather footware cradled in his hands. These and others had carried his weight with narry a complaint for what probably amounted to hundreds of miles in their short lifetime. He smiled amusedly at the thought of irritable, talking shoes, and almost considered it a shame that no-one had taken it into their heads, or had the ability, to invent such a thing. After all, they didn't screech like cloth when they needed mending, and it had been quite a few years since leather shoes had squeaked.

　

Enough. A backward swing of the arm and the shoes followed the coat and the shirt.

　

Snapping a button at his waist, the loose pants which he had bought with such a night as this figuring somewhere at the back of his mind, were soon a puddle of cloth at his feet and, stepping out of them, he retrieved them almost without a thought. They had spent most of their time at the back of his wardrobe, as he had only used them once or twice to work out in. He almost tossed them towards the fire at that moment, without giving them another thought but then stopped; to have bought them with the almost express intention of burning them seemed wrong somehow and so instead of sacrificing them to the flames, he let them drop out of his hands. Looking at them as they lay crumpled on the floor he decided then and there that if they somehow escaped immolation, when this was all over he would return for them and take them with him.

　

Naked now, as the baby he had once been, he drew another deliberate breath and slowly began to move through the steps of an ancient rebirth ritual which had become lost in the mists of time. In some ways they resembled a focussing exercise that was practiced by many of his race to cleanse themselves, each movement serving to focus mind and body in an effort to purge scattering emotion and rid the mind of all that drew the individual into darkness and confusion.

　

This time, however, the purpose was not to gain a renewed grip on life, but to prepare for death and only death. Annihilation of desire, ambition, memory; all that had brought him sadness, all that had brought him joy, everything which most mortals would consider to be of the self. Only by this ritual could he attain the goal which awaited him, just the other side of that door.

　

At the end of each set of movements, he would bow, each cycle taking him to face four points of the Earth; the mountain now called Everest, the tor at Glastonbury, Roswell, New Mexico, and an unnamed spot halfway up one of the mountain ranges in Australia. In each of these places he had been the recipient of an intense spiritual experience, two of them healing, one of them the most dark and frightening ever to have taken hold of him, the last, deeply disturbing in its power and revelation.

　

He completed his final steps, which brought him, once more, face to face with the fire. His entire body was bathed in sweat and it was neither completely from his exertions, nor from the intense heat of the fire; the ritual had focussed his mind on what he had to do but it had once again, failed to eradicate the fear of this next, horrifying part of the ceremony. Knowing it had to be done was one thing; doing it was another.

　

As it had been the first time, he knew there was only one way that he could go through with this. He had to look on this act as if it was the overcoming of an aggressor; still he was unable to simply step forward, mind, heart and senses calm and accepting.

　

He was not ready to do this, could not ever be, even if he waited another hundred years. _'Sometimes, you cannot be ready, but you must do it anyway ...'_

　

Raising his arms high, and remembering terror, heat and death bearing down inexorably upon him, he screamed, pushing out the last of this life about to be over, and ran into the flames.

*

There was no-one within fifty miles of the burning building. No-one to call out the emergency services, no-one to go rushing in for an unwanted rescue; he had chosen the place specifically because of those and other appropriate attributes. There was no-one around to watch in horror as the still-burning figure crawled its way out of the by now, engulfed building, towards the lakeside. No-one to be frozen in the grip of what was surely a nightmare, as the flames were doused when the body hit the water. No-one, suddenly free to move, to go dashing down to the jetty and dive in, in the hopes of at least retrieving the body, for the horribly ravaged figure would certainly be dead.

　

No-one to know that for the next three days the forgotten lake would be the cool, cocooning blanket to an Immortal who was in the process of healing slowly, within and without, to emerge, unknowing of place, time or self, at the beginning of a new life.

*

Dawn rose almost unnoticed behind the grey veil of clouds, which for the past three days had given up their moisture to the earth beneath for the past ninety-two hours or so. There was a slight disturbance in the waters of the lake; bubbles, which were intermittent at first and then in more of a steady pattern as the figure fought its way to the surface. Finally breaking through to the air and light, the figure allowed itself to float, feeling strangely peaceful. It had no knowledge at that moment, of who it was, nor even what it was, sensing only, somewhere deep inside itself that it was alive and that it was beyond all danger, all pain, except for the sting of the rain in its eyes. The figure turned over on its front to escape it. Continuing in this feeling of peace for some time, the figure only slowly realised that the instinctive movements of its limbs were moving it through the water. Then its mind was hit with a flash of a memory; a word.

　

Swim.

　

It took a moment or two to associate the word with the movements, but then close on the heels of the memory, came others; a name. Some deep instinct for self-preservation awoke as he recognised the name, and the man, for so he now knew himself to be, began swimming for the shore. He noticed idly the burned-out building over on his left, and some impulse made him change direction towards it.

　

Clambering awkwardly up onto the muddy bank, the man was aware now of being cold as the chill air hit his skin. He looked around for something with which to cover himself; there was nothing. Hoping for some degree of greater warmth inside what was left of the ruined building he went inside and huddled down near one of the remaining charred walls still left standing. As he knelt there shivering, he noticed a splash of dull colour a few feet from him. It looked like an old rag half buried beneath a pile of rubble and, in the hopes that it might be something large enough to wrap around him, he scuttled over to it and pulled at it.

　

It was a pair of loose linen pants; well, he thought, that would at least keep half of him a little warmer than he was at present, and swiftly picking them up and shaking the grey ash which covered them, put them on, pulling the drawstring tight around his thin waist.

　

It was at that moment that he noticed the ravenous hunger in his belly; he would have to eat soon. His fingers twitched in the unconscious motion of bending a stick and without another thought he got up and left the building once more, in search of a suitable piece of wood to set a trap.

　

He ran into the forest, scanning the lower brances of the trees for any twigs which might suit his purpose, but had only gone a short distance when he was pulled up short by a sharp pain in his left foot. Collapsing to the leaf-strewn ground, and examining the sole of his foot, he found a piece of smokey glass embedded there. He pulled at it, giving a short, sharp cry of pain, and scrabbled together some of the wet leaves surrounding him to cover the wound and stem the blood.

　

His breath caught in his throat for a moment, as, instead of the wound gushing blood, as he had expected, there was only a trickle which dried up almost instantly, and a milky spark of light flashed over his flesh as it healed, leaving no scar to even bear witness to what, seconds before, had been a nasty gouge.

　

Forgetting all thoughts of immediate survival he pondered this small miracle; was this supposed to happen? He couldn't remember; he sat and agonisingly searched for memories now, but it seemed there were none. Nothing; he was empty, except for a name and even that somehow seemed unimportant. There was something waiting for him, something in the forest maybe, and he thought of returning to the relative safety of the burned out building; but then his stomache churned painfully and he remembered the more immediate necessity of food.

　

Continuing his search for twigs for traps, taking more care as he went this time, he headed deeper into the trees.

*

It was the strangest thing; the look of the thing terrified him at first and he would have turned on his heel and run if it hadn't been for the pull of familiarity. Finally he remembered; it was a car and a car at least meant civilisation of some sort. He stared at it a few moments longer then warily approached it and looked inside. There was something shiny at the back of one of the seats and there were more clothes there too. He was curious about whatever was reflecting the daylight in there, but the clothes would answer a more immediate necessity.

　

Having managed to catch and kill a couple of squirrels earlier that day, his hunger was temporarily abaited, but he was still cold. He had spent the previous night in a dugout covered with leaves and other grassy flora, and although it had taken him half an hour the next morning before he could move around this morning, he had at least survived. Nevertheless, this kind of rough camping out wasn't something he intended to make a habit out of.

　

Examining the car more closely, he was disappointed to find that there didn't seem to be any way into it except to smash one of the windows. He had tried pulling at the doors but they wouldn't budge. If he wanted the clothes, he realised there was no other choice.

　

The cuts along his right forearm healed quickly enough and were soon forgotten as his attention was taken up with donning the clothing as fast as possible. Pulling on the leather jacket which was slung over the front seat added the final touch. The cord jeans were too big and had to be cinched in with the belt, though they were rather short in the leg, and the shirt was massive, indicating that whoever this guy was that the clothes belonged to was more than a little overweight for his size. He was lucky to find that the socks and boots were about right though, which he later considered a little strange; someone so short in the leg, should have had smaller feet too. Perhaps this person had had his growth stunted at some point.

　

Looking up and down the road where the car was parked showed no sign of anyone around so the clothes-napper reached down behind the front seat to grasp at whatever was shining down on the floor. He felt an intense wave of inexplicable disappointment to find that it was a lengthy metal contraption with some sort of lock on it; it wasn't what he had expected to find.

　

So what _had_ he thought it was? Memories were crowding into him faster now, and there was an image of something in his mind which he was able to identify as a sword. By the look of the bronze pommel and guard it must be quite old and he was suddenly seized by an inordinately desperate need to find it. Without even looking around once more to check whether anyone had appeared and seen what he was up to, he turned tail and ran back into the forest, heading towards the lake.

　

An hour later he crashed out into the daylight near the blackened ruins of the warehouse and just stood blinking in the stronger light. Where was it? Where had he left it and why? He never went anywhere without his sword, he would never be that stupid ...

　

The sudden final crash of memories drove him to his knees, gasping for breath. He saw others like him, bearing swords and fighting each other for survival; heads rolling and lightning arcing across the sky and all around them, through them, its vicious, inhuman fingers bringing the exquisite hair-fine balance of pain and pleasure in an ecstasy of power, stronger than rage or joy. He saw the solitude and sanctuary of holy ground and the hidden gleam of the Prize which tempted and terrorized all Immortals. He saw the procession of years, almost uncountable, of his existance flashing past and away from him, like some drug-induced rush of experience and finally he remembered.

　

Remembered what was fired - a symbolic chalice of clay - at the centre of his being, the reason for his survival, all the knowledge absorbed, the wisdom gleaned from his existance ...

　

They had so little time.

　

For a brief moment, he saw a gentle face with bright, ageless eyes, framed by washed-out titian hair that was so soft and comforting to the touch ...

　

Then it was gone, along with everything else, fading into the misty distance of forgetfulness, and the hollow pain he felt at that rememberance gone with it. There could only be One. For the sake of every short-lived mortal it had to be the Right One.

　

Slowly the speeding images faded into blackness and he was alone in his head once more. He took a deep, cleansing breath and opened his eyes. When he could summon the strength to raise his head, he looked out across the lake his gaze fixed on a point some metres out. Clambering to his feet he began hurriedly stripping off the newly acquired clothing and then running towards the waters edge, threw himself into the water and swam swiftly through the water to where he had seen the sword go down. His mind full of the image of it circling, handle over tip through the air, he dove down and began frantically searching for that other part of him which he had only just remembered existed. He reached the bottom quite quickly and scanned the area he could see, feeling around with his hands in case the sword had been covered by silt.

　

Nearly twenty minutes had passed before his left hand finally curled around the ever familiar handle, and he headed for the surface once more.

　

Back on the shore, he ran around for a few minutes to dry off in the rapidly intensifying heat of the noonday Sun, then got dressed, feeling a lot less vulnerable now that he had his sword back. It was at that point that he remembered the thin, loose pants which he had exchanged for the warmer jeans, back at the car. Should he go back for them? He decided not to; after all, if the owner of the car ever came back he would at least have something to put on to save his dignity.

　

It was enough. His time here was done, he sensed; whatever he had gone through to reach this point was over now, and it was time that he went back into the world to seek out a new life.

　

Searching through the pockets of the jacket, he found a wallet with six hundred bucks and a drivers' licence in it; he would have to find some way to repay Mr. Alfred Hunt in the not-too-distant future, but for now he needed at least the money if he was going to get himself back into civilisation again.

　

It would probably be a hell of a long walk back to the nearest town , but if he was lucky he might be able to hitch a ride with someone, or there might even be a ranger station out here someplace. He remembered a sandwich box on the back seat of the car and headed out there again, hoping that the car owner hadn't returned to his vehicle yet.

　

He was relieved to find that his luck was still holding out; the car was just as he had left it and there was still no-one around; retrieving the still fairly fresh liverwurst sandwiches, he started walking along the road in an Westerly direction.

　

Having to start over again was a thought that excited and terrified him at the same time, and he spent a little time wondering if he was up to the challenge. Not that that mattered; the challenge was there and all he could do was go to meet it, go through it, and either succeed or fail. Either way, he knew he was capable of learning from the experience.

　

He smiled. He knew that he had gone through the passage of fire before and had more than survived; and that his ultimate goal was still a true one. It was really the only thing he had kept with him, apart from his sword, that they were the only constants that he could allow himself. So if his goal was ever to stand a chance of being acheived, no matter whatever else he would need to do, his first task would be to relocate Duncan MacLeod. There would be endless questions and a lot of explaining to do, and he wasn't looking forward to that, but he knew it was par for the course.

　

Adam Pierson, mild-mannered Watcher, was dead. Long live whoever he was going to be next. A phoenix of his former self, Methos walked on into a new life.

　

~finis~

 

 


End file.
